Captain Jones shared many of his friend’s qualities. He was vivacious15, witty16, and generous, well made and elegant in person and, if he was not quite as handsome as the doctor, he was perhaps rather his superior in intellect. Compare them as we may, however, there can be little doubt that the gifts and tastes of both gentlemen were better adapted for pleasure than for labour, for society than for solitude17, for the hazards and pleasures of the table rather than for the rigours of religion and war. It was the gaming-table that seduced18 Captain Jones, and here, alas19, his gifts and graces stood him in little stead. His affairs became more and more hopelessly embarrassed, so that shortly, instead of being able to take his walks at large, he was forced to limit them to the precincts of St. James’s, where, by ancient prerogative20, such unfortunates as he were free from the attentions of the bailiffs.
To so gregarious21 a spirit the confinement22 was irksome. His only resource, indeed, was to get into talk with any such “parksaunterers” as misfortunes like his own had driven to perambulate the Park, or, when the weather allowed, to bask23 and loiter and gossip on its benches. As chance would have it (and the Captain was a devotee of that goddess) he found himself one day resting on the same bench with an elderly gentleman of military aspect and stern demeanour, whose ill-temper the wit and humour which all allowed to Captain Jones presumably beguiled24, so that whenever the Captain appeared in the Park, the old man sought his company, and they passed the time until dinner very pleasantly in talk. On no occasion, however, did the General — for it appeared that the name of this morose25 old man was General Skelton — ask Captain Jones to his house; the acquaintance went no further than the bench in St. James’s Park; and when, as soon fell out, the Captain’s difficulties forced him to the greater privacy of a little cabin at Mortlake, he forgot entirely26 the military gentleman who, presumably, still sought an appetite for dinner or some alleviation27 of his own sour mood in loitering and gossiping with the park-saunterers of St. James’s.
But among the amiable28 characteristics of Captain Jones was a love of wife and child, scarcely to be wondered at, indeed, considering his wife’s lively and entertaining disposition29 and the extraordinary promise of that little girl who was later to become the wife of Lord Cornwallis. At whatever risk to himself, Captain Jones would steal back to revisit his wife and to hear his little girl recite the part of Juliet which, under his teaching, she had perfectly30 by heart. On one such secret journey he was hurrying to get within the royal sanctuary31 of St. James’s when a voice called on him to stop. His fears obsessing32 him, he hurried the faster, his pursuer close at his heels. Realizing that escape was impossible, Jones wheeled about and facing his pursuer, whom he recognized as the Attorney Brown, demanded what his enemy wanted of him. Far from being his enemy, said Brown, he was the best friend he had ever had, which he would prove if Jones would accompany him to the first tavern33 that came to hand. There, in a private room over a fire, Mr. Brown disclosed the following astonishing story. An unknown friend, he said, who had scrutinized34 Jones’s conduct carefully and concluded that his deserts outweighed35 his misdemeanours, was prepared to settle all his debts and indeed to put him beyond the reach of such tormentors in future. At these words a load was lifted from Jones’s heart, and he cried out “Good God! Who can this paragon36 of friendship be?” It was none other, said Brown, than General Skelton. General Skelton, the man whom he had only met to chat with on a bench in St. James’s Park? Jones asked in wonderment. Yes, it was the General, Brown assured him. Then let him hasten to throw himself in gratitude37 at his benefactor’s knee! Not so fast, Brown replied; General Skelton will never speak to you again. General Skelton died last night.
The extent of Captain Jones’s good fortune was indeed magnificent. The General had left Captain Jones sole heir to all his possessions on no other condition than that he should assume the name of Skelton instead of Jones. Hastening through streets no longer dreadful, since every debt of honour could now be paid, Captain Jones brought his wife the astonishing news of their good fortune, and they promptly38 set out to view that part which lay nearest to hand — the General’s great house in Henrietta Street. Gazing about her, half in dream, half in earnest, Mrs. Jones Was so overcome with the tumult39 of her emotions that she could not stay to gather in the extent of her possessions, but ran to Little Bedford Street, where Mrs. Wilkinson was then living, to impart her joy. Meanwhile, the news that General Skelton lay dead in Henrietta Street without a son to succeed him spread abroad, and those who thought themselves his heirs arrived in the house of death to take stock of their inheritance, among them one great and beautiful lady whose avarice40 was her undoing41, whose misfortunes were equal to her sins, Kitty Chudleigh, Countess of Bristol, Duchess of Kingston. Miss Chudleigh, as she then called herself, believed, and who can doubt that with her passionate42 nature, her lust5 for wealth and property, her pistols and her parsimony43, she believed with vehemence44 and asserted her belief with arrogance45, that all General Skelton’s property had legally descended46 to her. Later, when the will was read and the truth made public that not only the house in Henrietta Street, but Pap Castle in Cumberland and the lands and lead mines pertaining47 to it, were left without exception to an unknown Captain Jones, she burst out in “terms exceeding all bounds of delicacy48.” She cried that her relative the General was an old fool in his dotage49, that Jones and his wife were impudent50 low upstarts beneath her notice, and so flounced into her coach “with a scornful quality toss” to carry on that life of deceit and intrigue51 and ambition which drove her later to wander in ignominy, an outcast from her country.
What remains52 to be told of the fortunes of Captain Jones can be briefly53 despatched. Having new furnished the house in Henrietta Street, the Jones family set out when summer came to visit their estates in Cumberland. The country was so fair, the Castle so stately, the thought that now all belonged to them so gratifying that their progress for three weeks was one of unmixed pleasure and the spot where they were now to live seemed a paradise. But there was an eagerness, an impetuosity about James Jones which made him impatient to suffer even the smiles of fortune passively. He must be active — he must be up and doing. He must be “let down,” for all his friends could do to dissuade54 him, to view a lead mine. The consequences as they foretold55 were disastrous56. He was drawn up, indeed, but already infected with a deadly sickness of which in a few days he died, in the arms of his wife, in the midst of that paradise which he had toiled57 so long to reach and now was to die without enjoying.
Meanwhile the Wilkinsons — but that name, alas, was no longer applicable to them, nor did the Dr. and his wife any more inhabit the house in the Savoy — the Wilkinsons had suffered more extremities58 at the hands of Fate than the Joneses themselves. Dr. Wilkinson, it has been said, resembled his friend Jones in the conviviality59 of his habits and his inability to keep within the limits of his income. Indeed, his wife’s dowry of two thousand pounds had gone to pay off the debts of his youth. But by what means could he pay off the debts of his middle age? He was now past fifty, and what with good company and good living, was seldom free from duns, and always pressed for money. Suddenly, from an unexpected quarter, help appeared. This was none other than the Marriage Act, passed in 1755, which laid it down that if any person solemnized a marriage without publishing the banns, unless a marriage licence had already been obtained, he should be subject to transportation for fourteen years. Dr. Wilkinson, looking at the matter, it is to be feared, from his own angle, and with a view to his own necessities, argued that as Chaplain of the Savoy, which was extra–Parochial and Royal-exempt, he could grant licences as usual — a privilege which at once brought him such a glut60 of business, such a crowd of couples wishing to be married in a hurry, that the rat-tat-tat never ceased on his street door, and cash flooded the family exchequer61 so that even his little boy’s pockets were lined with gold. The duns were paid; the table sumptuously62 spread. But Dr. Wilkinson shared another failing with his friend Jones; he would not take advice. His friends warned him; the Government plainly hinted that if he persisted they would be forced to act. Secure in what he imagined to be his right, enjoying the prosperity it brought him to the full, the Doctor paid no heed63. On Easter Day he was engaged in marrying from eight in the morning till twelve at night. At last, one Sunday, the King’s Messengers appeared. The Doctor escaped by a secret walk over the leads of the Savoy, made his way to the river bank, where he slipped upon some logs and fell, heavy and elderly as he was, in the mud; but nevertheless got to Somerset stairs, took a boat, and reached the Kentish shore in safety. Even now he brazened it out that the law was on his side, and came back four weeks later prepared to stand his trial. Once more, for the last time, company overflowed64 the house in the Savoy; lawyers abounded65, and, as they ate and drank, assured Dr. Wilkinson that his case was already won. In July 1756 the trial began. But what conclusion could there be? The crime had been committed and persisted in openly in spite of warning. The Doctor was found guilty and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation.
It remained for his friends to fit him out, like the gentleman he was, for his voyage to America. There, they argued, his gifts of speech and person would make him welcome, and later his wife and son could join him. To them he bade farewell in the dismal66 precincts of Newgate in March 1757. But contrary winds beat the ship back to shore; the gout seized on a body enfeebled by pleasure and adversity; at Plymouth Dr. Wilkinson was transported finally and for ever. The lead mine undid67 Jones; the Marriage Act was the downfall of Wilkinson. Both now sleep in peace, Jones in Cumberland, Wilkinson, far from his friend (and if their failings were great, great too were their gifts and graces) on the shores of the melancholy68 Atlantic.
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1
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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2
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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3
agitate
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| vi.(for,against)煽动，鼓动；vt.搅动 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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seclude
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| vi.使隔离，使孤立，使隐退 | |
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10
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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12
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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13
convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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14
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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15
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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17
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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18
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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19
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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20
prerogative
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| n.特权 | |
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21
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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23
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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24
beguiled
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| v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 )；使陶醉；使高兴；消磨（时间等） | |
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25
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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28
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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30
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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31
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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32
obsessing
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| v.时刻困扰( obsess的现在分词 )；缠住；使痴迷；使迷恋 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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34
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
outweighed
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| v.在重量上超过( outweigh的过去式和过去分词 )；在重要性或价值方面超过 | |
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36
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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38
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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39
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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40
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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41
undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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42
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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43
parsimony
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| n.过度节俭，吝啬 | |
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44
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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45
arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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46
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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47
pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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48
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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49
dotage
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| n.年老体衰；年老昏聩 | |
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50
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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51
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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52
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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53
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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54
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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55
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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57
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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58
extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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59
conviviality
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| n.欢宴，高兴，欢乐 | |
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60
glut
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| n.存货过多，供过于求；v.狼吞虎咽 | |
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61
exchequer
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| n.财政部；国库 | |
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62
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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64
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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65
abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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66
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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67
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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